Please
by thenopetrain
Summary: Dead, dead, he wants to be dead. In spite of his freedom, he can't make them stop. Even with the dagger safe, he's still accosted by the voices inside his head. Just a little character study, with Belle and Regina appearances. Sunday still feels so far away.


**Disclaimer: I don't own anything. At all. Everything belongs to the creators, writers, and actors. If I owned anything, it would be Sunday already...**

**All of the quotes used in this are taken from all three seasons. I would list the individual episodes, but it's a long list. If you guys want that, I can provide it. PM me if that's the case. So **if you aren't caught up and don't know what's going on DO NOT read this**. I'm jumping on the bandwagon because those stupid sneak peaks. So if you are abstaining from spoilers, ignore this, please. I don't want to ruin it for you. Anyway, I might do a Regina/Belle version of this scene but I haven't decided yet. This is my first time writing for this fandom, which is weird since I'm totally obsessed with the show. Enjoy! =]**

* * *

"I can't-"

Owls herald death. Divine and ominous, they lead the lambs to slaughter. Bad omens. Good omens. Dreams. Owls bring change. _Change, change, change._ So silent, so eerie. This great, horned predator had been nothing but a shadow until daylight blared through the window above his head. _Dead, then._

_Death._ It doesn't stir anything in the man staring at the stuffed owl in the corner of the shop as he envies its state. There are worse things he can think of. Like pain, regret, longing, noise, fear, containment, abandonment…

Dawn had always been bleak before now. Rarely experienced by others, and never appreciated. It's a rare moment for this pair of eyes to watch the light explode into the room. Or any light for that matter. It's really the only reason he'd seen the owl; on fire in the glow and staring as though he were the mouse.

_I know a desperate soul when I see one._

A whimper and a palm to the side of his face. His mind is moving,

Shaking,

Yelling his name.

"Please," Choked, brittle, and strained; a violin string reaching its maximum wear and _snap_, the pieces of it disintegrate and the music is no more_._ There's movement to his right, a gentle voice reflected away from the horrors in his ears. That flicker of hope vanishes into the next room and is swallowed by an indomitable void.

_She will not come back._ Dead, dead, dead. _Jumped from the tower._

_Over and over again, she jumps._ It's the twelfth hour of his escape. His _second_ escape. Summoned the first time, freed a second, _bolted._

_Run home, Rumple. It's what you're good at. _

There really isn't anything spectacular about the naked sun creeping higher and higher through the shutters behind him. It's just illumination in a room with more confusion. Pieces of history to fill the gaps. Needles in a haystack. But how to get the needles out of the hay and into his brain?

_Kiss my boot._

A knife in the old man's chest. Blood on the blade. His name.

_Because I never loved you._ His miserable, useless name.

_Thank you._ Gurgled and wet and singing with relief.

A shiver shoots through his body, his nerves dancing in frenzy. That's all he wants. _Relief._ His eyes dart around the room, looking but seeing nothing of what he needs. _No, I think the spinning is bringing the madness._ He can feel anxiety like a knife. The knotted contours of the old blade fray his sanity thread by thread by thread by _thread_. It's nothing like being shaved and everything like being sawed in half with a dull knife.

Slow, torturous…_It's forever, Dearie._

True Love. It could save him. It could. _She died._ And he could not hear that flicker of light spark or cry or plead or sputter. _You know what you love, now go kill it._ But he could see her. Saw her. Felt her.

_You're real…_ But when?

It's an awful scream inside his body, yearning to free itself. A contained explosion in his skull. A bomb in a bomb shelter. _Turn out the light. _It fills his lungs with past transgressions as though the traumas he's suffered were the air he breathed. Movement again, in through the door, heels like drums across the wood floor, and standing before him.

A contradiction to the sun.

"Regina." So many different versions of her face bloom before his eyes and disguise the stricken look on her face. Happy, sad, malevolent, vengeful…it takes everything in him not to shy away when she kneels down in front of him. _The only choice I have is which corner to hide in._ Eye to eye, her faces shutter to a halt, and there sits the Mayor. Her eyes brim with tears until the anger and the fear burn them away. He is stifled by this version, unable to control this situation when there are no bars to hide behind or pin her to.

_Rest assured I had nothing to do with that tragedy._ His hands reach to cover his ears, an immediate and sudden movement to ward off the hated words she spoke decades ago but continue to echo. That very tragedy stands off behind Regina, prepared and lingering as if anticipating some new catastrophe. His Evil Queen continues to say nothing. The voice dies away into the wave of madness, and he takes his chance. His right arm shoots out to grab hold of her throat, and the room itself seems to tense. If walls could move, or speak, or feel…

_Don't you like your cage?_ There's flinching by both parties, but they do nothing.

_You must do whatever I say so long as I say…_ "Please." Please it starts with P and so does _pain_. So much pain. _Pathetic._

Paper ripped in half, chords of fire around every muscle. "Please." This is wrong. _Tell me your name._ His hand snaps back towards his chest, and he cradles it there for later use; taut and waiting to defend himself. His strength chimes in with an order demanding action. _She's different, bolder._ They're all different. He would smile if it were appropriate.

"Rumple," Not Gold, Rum, Mate, Beast, Imp…not the way Belle says his name, either. His eyes meet the uncertainty in the dark ones before him. Regina's hands slowly stretch towards him, and freeze at the sides of his face. She looks for permission as if he can't beg enough. It's like she's rolling crumbs between her knuckles and her thumbs, and he can practically taste the magic waiting there.

_What is it you want?_

Sleep. He just wants to sleep. Just for a little while where silence exists and curses cannot reach him. Where his eyes are not bloodshot, and he can tremble and cry and rage in peace; buried under layers of blissful ignorance. _What you've done cannot be undone._ Dead is dead is dead.

_You should never have brought me back._

And then there's something glowing, a freezing burn at his temples. When he tries to pull away from the touch, Regina's hands won't let him. _Not alright, not alright._ And this burn, oh he knows her magic is not _kind_, lances through his skull and numbs all the broken-ended strains of thoughts, memories, and hallucinations. The demons, the ghosts, the haunts, the dead…they are dust to clog the corners of his mind. Webs without spiders.

He doesn't notice when it's done, only knows the weight in his hand and the silence in his ears. He sags against the shelf, a puppet without strings. Those beautiful blue eyes are in front of him now, and clarity is a brief and welcome miracle to a sinner like him.

"Belle." He is a man without air, without strength, and he brings her hand to rest on his heaving chest. _I needed you._ The warmth of her palm against the lurching _thud…thud…thud…_of his heart engulfs him in exhaustion, and the pain recedes. She is gentle light and a sturdy embrace. Belle smiles behind her tears, whether happy or sad or a combination of the two he doesn't know.

But he hates them. _You're a monster, Rumplestiltskin._ He winces, because he lacks the energy for anything else and prays to whoever might hear him that the voices don't come back. _ I just want to sleep._ And he presses her hand against his heart a little harder as if she could still its frantic beating and, by extension, his entire being. He squeezes her hand, then. Intends never to let go.

And as he slips under the blanket of the reprieve he's been gifted, he feels her hand brush along his face, and she whispers,

"I know."

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**Turned out a bit more...haphazard than I would have liked. Let me know if you want Regina/Belle pov's. I just really wanted a scene where Regina actually assists Rumple instead of the other way around. And I wanted Belle to be all 'so help me if you do something bad to him', and even though that didn't come out the way I wanted it to, she's there for her man. Regina's reaction to his death and to him being alive killed me because I adore their dynamic, and I miss their sass. Fingers crossed he gets freed from Zelena's grasp soon! Ugh. Poor baby. I can't wait for Sunday. **


End file.
